


Bad Moon Rising

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn't gone ten steps when the Buzz of another Immortal raced through his body.  "Dammit, Highlander, now you're following me?" he growled as he scanned the surrounding area.  </p>
<p>The man who appeared out of the shadows was not MacLeod, and Methos was instantly on alert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 1997 under my real name.

October 15th, 1997

Methos stretched languidly as he opened his eyes. A deep rumble of a yawn filled his chest and nearly split his jaw. He felt like he had been asleep for days, though he had gotten in very late the night before. He rolled over and his eyes narrowed at the clock. He had an hour to get ready for his lunch date with Joe and MacLeod. He pulled the comforter up to his chin and closed his eyes. All he needed was a few more minutes' sleep. Then he'd get up and meet them.

Loud pounding and the Buzz of an Immortal jerked him out of his sound sleep, then a very irate voice yelled, "Adam! Adam, I know you're in there."

Duncan MacLeod. Methos tossed off his comforter, grabbed his sword, and stomped to the door. He flung it open and brought his broadsword to MacLeod's neck. "Continue to bang on my door, and I will remove your head," he hissed to the startled Highlander.

MacLeod stepped back in surprise, his look of petulant anger swiftly turning to concern. "What's gotten into you? You were supposed to meet us two hours ago! I thought someone... "

"Had taken my head?" Methos snapped as he lowered his sword. "Sorry to disappoint you." He glared at the Scotsman for a half a minute, then growled, "Well, are you going to come in, or do you think my neighbors enjoy the sight of me in my underwear?"

Methos shook his head as MacLeod glanced down to his crotch and blushed. At least he had on  _something_ ; usually he didn't. But his boxers were old and comfortable...and holey. MacLeod hadn't moved, and his limited patience was rapidly thinning. "Modesty does not become me, MacLeod. Either get your skinny butt in here or go away."

Startled by the order, MacLeod stepped through the doorway into the living area. Methos slammed the door with more force than necessary, then turned to speak to his uninvited guest.

"What did you want?" he started to ask, then realized he had slept through lunch. "Oh, right. Lunch. Sorry. Give me a minute," he tossed over his shoulder as he stepped around the Highlander. He felt his cockles rise as MacLeod folded his arms as he passed him. He could almost hear the tone of voice he was about to be lectured in. A small bit of smugness mixed with a healthy dose of sarcasm and anger; all designed to make him feel guilty. Too bad MacLeod never listened; he hadn't felt guilt in centuries.

"It's a bit late for that now. It's nearly two," MacLeod accused.

Right on the money. Damn, he should go into fortune telling again. But since MacLeod was so hell-bent on the guilt trip, he'd see what he could pull together. How about a little reverse psychology? "Did you bother to call?" he asked as he pulled a pair of jeans and a Henley from his dresser.

A pregnant pause. Strike one. MacLeod's voice was softer as he retorted, "No, but that's not the point. Joe was worried about you."

He pulled on his jeans as he contemplated how to strike next. Joe was concerned...aha. An opening. "And what of you, Highlander?"

He'd caught him. MacLeod's face fell and his brows knitted together. "What?"

Methos tugged the Henley over his head, grabbed a pair of socks and his shoes, and passed MacLeod on his way to the couch. "Joe was worried about me. What of you? No concern for me at all?" he asked. He slipped his socks on, then started in on his hiking boots.

"Well, yes, I suppose, a little," MacLeod admitted. "But you don't have to be so irresponsible either, Methos. You could have called to let us know you'd be late."

He rolled his eyes. "I was asleep, remember, MacLeod? How could I call?"

The Highlander had the grace to blush sheepishly. "Did you set your alarm?" Duncan countered.

Methos stamped his foot into his boot. "I don't own one. I have an internal clock that knows what time it is."

"Obviously, it needs some adjustment," MacLeod snorted.

Methos stopped putting on his boots and glared up at the Scotsman. Was Duncan deliberately being annoying? Or was it because he'd just woken up? Either way, he was irritated, and he couldn't mask it. "What do you want me to do, MacLeod? I overslept. I'll call Joe and explain to him, but there's nothing else for me to do," he exasperated.

Maybe,  _finally_ , MacLeod realized he was really serious. The younger Immortal's stance subtely shifted, but Methos was a student of human nature; he knew exactly what MacLeod was up to. It was now time to make up to the offended. Pleading tones to soften the voice; eyes wide to accentuate the hurt innocence.

"I'm sorry, Methos. I'm sure you're hungry, too. Maybe we could go out for an early dinner...?" Once again, right on the money. He made a mental note to check into the psychic scene and see what was involved in getting a hotline set up. He shook his head with a rueful grin. MacLeod must have been practicing; he was good. Or, he may have been spending a lot of time with Amanda. All he needed to do was flutter his eyelashes a bit, and he would beat out Amanda - almost.

But, he was not in the mood to deal with MacLeod's increased ability to wheedle. He  _was_ hungry, but he'd be damned if he gave MacLeod the satisfaction of knowing that. "I'm afraid not, Highlander. I'll see you around. You know the way out." He settled back on the couch and flung his arms across the back.

He watched the color rise in the Highlander's cheeks; MacLeod was angry. "Methos..."

Well, he was angry too. Irrationally, wholly, completely angry. He was unable to stop the harsh words from leaving his lips: "Just go, MacLeod. I certainly don't need pity from a child like you."

He watched dispassionately as MacLeod swiftly turned and left his apartment, the abused door being slammed again as MacLeod's Buzz faded. Methos was breathing hard, the anger still with him. He fidgeted on the couch, restless. Unsure just what had set him off - maybe too little sleep - he decided to go for a run. Maybe that would clear his head.

He changed quickly into sweats, then headed for a local park. He ran until his chest burned from lack of air, then he rested on one of the many wrought iron benches dotting the park. He rubbed absently at his thighs to keep the muscles from seizing up as he searched his emotions. Whatever had set him off earlier in the day seemed to have faded. But he still had a vague, unsettled feeling. A nagging worry he hadn't allowed himself to think about finally made a voice inside his head. It was entirely possible his feelings were caused by someone constantly watching him. He guessed he had been assigned a Watcher after the Bordeaux incident, even though he hoped that wasn't the case. He hadn't been Watched in decades; if a Watcher had been assigned to him, he'd better get used to it. It wouldn't do to look skittish every time he turned a corner.

Maybe he should call Joe and see if he knew if "Adam Pierson" had been assigned a Watcher, but he hated to use Joe that way. He knew MacLeod did it, and that didn't set right with him. But it wasn't his place to say anything - to MacLeod, at least. He did fully intend to have a nice chat with Dawson about keeping his ass out of the fire, but felt it would come off as hypocritical. After all, look at him. He had been a Watcher assigned to find himself. How hypocritical could you get?

A Buzz cut through his senses, and he was immediately on his feet and exiting the park. He didn't have his long sword with him, and he would rather not meet up with someone when he wasn't fully armed. He backtracked twice before going to his apartment; one could never be too careful. Kalas had found him easily enough in Paris, as had Amanda. He'd be damned if someone else discovered where he lived unless he specifically told them.

He had two messages; one from Joe, asking him to dinner the next night, and a hang up. It was probably MacLeod, but he was too drained to care. He was sweaty and tired, so he took a warm shower and made himself dinner. He still wasn't feeling quite up to a conversation about MacLeod, but placed a call to Joe anyway. Maybe Joe just wanted to talk. He smiled to himself. Right. This was Joe he was talking about. Born go-between for friends. Joe could stop interfering with his friends about as easily as he could stop breathing.

"It's me," he said in answer to Joe's greeting.

"Hey, Adam. I'm sorry we missed you for lunch. What's say we meet for dinner tomorrow night? My treat," Joe wheedled.

"Joseph Dawson," Methos murmured with a grin. "When will you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Being the moderator between MacLeod and me. Hell, MacLeod and everyone. We just had a minor disagreement; nothing more. It'll work itself out," he assured the Watcher.

"Like hell." Obviously, Joe didn't believe that. "Look, Adam, you stood me up, too, and I don't appreciate it. I know you and MacLeod have had a rocky friendship, but I thought you at least thought better of  _me_."

"I do!" he insisted loudly. His voice softened as he cursed himself. "Aw, hell. I'm sorry, Joe. I didn't mean to get you caught in the middle of this."

"What is  _this_ , Adam?"

" _This_ is...I don't know." He ran his hand through his hair as he closed his eyes. "I'm not feeling myself today."

"Another Immortal?"

Methos shifted through his feelings. "No; at least, I don't think so. It's like I'm being watched." He let the sentence hang between them, hoping Joe would pick up on what he desperately needed to know - without him having to spell it out. He shouldn't have worried; Joe was as much a student of human nature as himself.

There was a smile in Joe's voice as he answered, "I haven't heard of any ex-Methos Chroniclers suddenly becoming Immortal." There was a pause. "Is that was this is about?"

He sighed. "It might be. I don't know, Joe. I think I just need to be by myself for awhile. I'm too...sensitive, right now. Too many Immortals know who I am; I'm not used to that in this day and age. I need time to adjust."

"I understand. Hey, give me a call when you're up for another late-night poker game."

He smiled. "You're on, Joe. I'll be seeing you."

He hung up the phone, feeling a hell of a lot better than he had when he woke up. Thinking of his behavior earlier that day, he suddenly felt like all five thousand of his years. Deciding that maybe tomorrow things would be better, he stripped and went to bed.

~~~~

October 23rd

"Hey, Joe, I notice this glass is empty," Methos teased the bartender.

"Hey, Adam, I notice you haven't paid for the first three," Joe Dawson shot back with a grin.

Methos couldn't help but smile. It was good to feel normal again, after a very bizarre week. Well, almost normal. He still got the strangest feelings at the weirdest times, and nothing he did would shake them. He hoped it was just a phase he was going through. Who could tell?

His smile faded. Who would know? No one else was as old as he was. Unwilling to be brought down when he was feeling good, he let that train of thought die away. He dug into his jeans pocket, produced a $20 and waved it under Joe's nose. "Will this do?"

Joe's eyes lit up. "I believe so," he commented with a low whistle as he passed Methos another beer. "You feeling better?"

"Pretty much. I don't know what was wrong with me. Maybe some bad Italian food, who knows?" he shrugged it off. No sense in dwelling on it. He'd come to _Joe's_ to hear the new band Joe had found. So far, they were sounding very good. "Are you thinking of hiring them on?" he nodded to the stage.

Joe looked to the band, who were intensely focused on their music. "Possibly. Though I don't know..."

"C'mon, Joe. You know you'll sign them," he wheedled. At Joe's raised eyebrow, he smirked and added knowingly, "The lead singer is a knockout."

Joe flushed and immediately began washing glasses vigorously. "I hadn't noticed."

"Riiight," Methos drawled as he raised his mug for a sip. His hand stopped halfway to his lips and his entire body froze. His eyes slowly turned to the door, which Duncan MacLeod had just come through. He watched warily as MacLeod sidled up next to him at the bar.

"Joe," MacLeod nodded.

"Mac," the Watcher replied. "Get you something?"

Methos took a long draught of his beer and shifted onto the barstool until he was more comfortable. "So, Joe," he continued with their conversation as he blithely ignored MacLeod, "Where'd you say you found this band?"

"I'll have a scotch," Duncan answered Joe as he blithely ignored Methos. Which suited the elder Immortal just fine. They hadn't spoken since Methos had shown MacLeod his door a week ago. Tension was muted but persistent in the air. Now it settled between Methos' shoulder blades, and he felt the beginnings of a headache in his temples.

"In a club down by the docks. A real dive, but they sure livened the place up," Joe answered him, then turned to the Highlander. "What'd you think of them, Mac?"

Methos shook his head and kept his expression carefully neutral. Leave it to Joe to mediate. He'd let the mortal do it this time, but it was getting to the point where he didn't  _want_ to be mediated anymore.

All three men were silent as they listened to the band finish their set and call for a break. MacLeod nodded slowly, then offered, "They're good. I think you should sign them."

"Oh, he's going to sign them," Methos interjected with a smirk.

"I'm thinking about it," Joe commented lightly as he shot Methos a pointed look.

His smirk grew to a grin and he raised his glass in a mock-salute.

MacLeod's gaze slid between him and Joe, curious. "Am I missing something?"

"Probably, MacLeod. But don't feel bad; I'm sure I missed a few things in my youth, too," he shot back with a sardonic grin.

"Hey, lay off," Joe interjected sharply, then addressed MacLeod. "Adam and I were discussing the band when you arrived."

Some of the accusatory light left MacLeod's eyes, but he could tell the Highlander was still angry. For some reason, that pleased him.

"So, have you been feeling better this week, Adam?" MacLeod offered an olive branch.

Oh, how cute. Was the widdle Hiwander concerned about him? Well, he didn't need anyone's concern. He was just fine, and he told MacLeod so. "I've never felt better, MacLeod. Why, was something wrong last week?" he asked innocently.

"Yeah, you threw me out of your apartment," MacLeod reminded him hotly.

"I did?" he feigned ignorance. "Oh, you mean on  _Wednesday_." He could feel the hostility growing inside of himself, and he gave it free reign. "I didn't throw you out; I told you where the door was. Make sure to get your facts straight before you accuse me."

MacLeod turned to him then, his expression hurt and concerned. "Adam, I think there's something wrong with you. Seriously wrong."

Methos frowned as he mockingly patted himself down. "Wrong? No, nothing that a really good fuck wouldn't cure," he retorted crudely. MacLeod's jaw fell open in shock. Methos snorted. "Don't think I'm asking  _you_ , MacLeod. I have better taste than to take you into my bed."

MacLeod grabbed his arm and turned him on the stool to face him. "What the hell's the matter with you, Methos? I just want to help you," he hissed.

"Remove your hand," he snarled quietly, "Before I rip it off."

Joe's hand came down on MacLeod's on his arm. "Hey! I won't have a fight here, got it?" he snapped.

Methos was breathing hard as he stared intently at the Highlander. He could feel both MacLeod's and Joe's hands pushing on his arm, and yanked it from both their grips. He rose to his feet and grabbed his coat, forcefully shoving his arms into it. He settled his sword comfortably against his side and dug into his pockets again. He came up with a $50 and slapped it onto the bartop. "That should settle my tab," he explained curtly. He deliberately bumped the Highlander in his haste out of the bar.

Feeling more than unsettled, Methos stormed through the streets with his hands stuffed into his trench pockets. He kept his eyes on the ground and grumbled to anyone who dared step in his path. Rain slowly soaked through his trenchcoat, damping his skin as well as his spirits. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong. But neither could he pinpoint exactly what it was that was bothering him. What  _was_ wrong with him? Sometimes, he felt fine; others he felt like tearing someone apart. Other times, he nearly broke down over the littlest things-

He pulled up short when he realized where he had ended up. The small park off the main streets was familiar to him - painfully familiar. The noise of the city was far behind him; he had been so focused he hadn't noticed until now. This was the park he had taken Alexa to before they announced their trip to Joe. They had walked among the modern art dotting the landscape, planning which route to take across the country. A lump formed in his throat as he came upon the large concrete form that Alexa had liked. He had thought it was hideous, but she had seen an inner beauty to the chunk of rock. Since he was unable to argue with her about anything, he had tried to see it through her eyes, but it was still a chunk of rock to him. But now...he approached it slowly, not just from caution on the wet grass, but from...pain. The agony of losing Alexa hit him fresh in the chest, though it had been over a year since he had lost her. So much had happened since then, making his time with her even shorter by comparison. What if she had learned of his past? What if she had learned of his Immortality? Would she have loved him still?

His hand reached out and caressed the stone, as if somehow, he was caressing her shoulder instead. "Oh, Alexa, I thought I was over you," he murmured. To his surprise, his eyes filled and a few tears tracked down his face before he could stop them. His chest ached, and his breath quickened before he got himself under shaky control again. This was not where he wanted to be, but he felt compelled to stay there, if only for a little while.

He lifted his face to the softly falling rain and asked quietly, "Why did I come here? What purpose could it serve?" No answers were forthcoming, but in his heart, he knew. She was in a little Parisian cemetery halfway across the world, but he needed to talk to her. He needed her to know who he was; who he had been. Haltingly, he began to explain to her about his Immortality. He choked on the words, but managed to get the brief rundown of his life out in the open. Then he proceeded to tell her everything that had happened in the past few months. Where he had gone when he left her in Greece; the problems he had helped MacLeod through, and his most recent problems with Kronos and Byron. He chose to leave off the worst part, about the Horsemen, but he believed Alexa knew already, and understood. She had always understood him, even when he didn't understand himself. She had found his soul where he thought he had none, and loved him without question. She was truly a precious gift too short in this life.

He lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Wherever you are, sleep well, my love. As long as I live, so shall you," he murmured his promise.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced around the small park. The light rain had stopped, though the sun was still hidden by the low, gray clouds. He took another breath, and noted that the tightness in his chest had lessened. Feeling better than he had before he left the bar, he started off again.

He hadn't gone ten steps when the Buzz of another Immortal raced through his body. "Dammit, Highlander, now you're following me?" he growled as he scanned the surrounding area.

The man who appeared out of the shadows was not MacLeod, and Methos was instantly on alert. "Right on one count, at least," the man acknowledged with a nod. "I have been following you, though I'm not either of the Highlanders." He drew his sword.

Shit, shit, shit. He did  _not_ need this today. Hell, he didn't  _ever_ need it. He put on his friendliest smile. "There's no reason for that," he indicated the sword. "Let me buy you a beer and we can discuss this."

The man was pleasantly firm. "What is there to discuss? We are Immortal. I'm offering you a challenge."

"Which I'm declining," Methos stressed. "I don't want to fight you." Despite his attempts to get out of this fight, his body was already tensing into defensive mode. He shifted his center of balance and began to size up his opponent. An inch or two shorter than himself. Regular build - probably not a great reach. It could be a well-matched fight, if both fought fairly. Methos didn't intend to.

"It's what we do," the man replied as he stepped forward.

"But it doesn't have to be this way - unless you really want it." He put as much pleading into his tone as he dared, yet he could see it had no effect on the other Immortal. Using his quick reflexes, Methos had his broadsword out and moved forward to attack. Metal met metal as the man brought up his own weapon in defense.

"Oh, I want it. Fredrick Hayes." The man tilted his head via way of introduction.

Methos instantly tried to recall every bit of information he had on Hayes. Nine hundred years old. Once he had challenged, he fought fairly. Relentless in his pursuits. Persistent, but practical. Strong offense; good stamina. Methos couldn't remember any weaknesses off-hand, but he was about to test a few things. He settled into a defensive stance and let Hayes take control of the fight. He analyzed the moves as Hayes threw them at him; efficient, but not without elegance. Hayes was a clean fighter; aiming for vital parts that would immobilize his opponent and leave him weak for the kill. But Methos was quicker and easily adaptable. For every move that Hayes had, he had one to meet it. Just as he was getting warmed up, they heard voices approach. A choice had to be made and quickly; continue the fight and risk getting caught, or finish it now. Hayes stepped back, and Methos did the same, both listening for the direction of the sounds.

They heard children's voices getting louder, and quickly sheathed their swords. A group of giggling schoolchildren passed by them.

"Another time," Hayes hissed before disappearing into the crowd.

Methos sighed as he rolled his shoulder. "I can hardly wait." At least he had been able to read Hayes' strengths and weaknesses, and had a good plan to defeat him. Now all he had to do was find him.

~~~

October 31st

A full week of searching for Hayes had produced nothing. He didn't want to ask Joe for his help; he was sure if Hayes was still in town, the Immortal would have found him. Or at the very least, he would have bumped into him. But, he had been relatively Immortal-free for days, and he was getting restless. It was more than that; he was itching for a fight. He decided to just walk the streets and see what he came up with. If nothing else, maybe he would run into another Immortal; Seacouver had a reputation of being an Immortal playground.

He took a deep breath; the pre-dusk air felt brisk and gave him a boost of energy. He eyed the dressed-up children warily, wondering what sort of strange holiday he had stumbled onto now. One strange look later, and he had his answer; Halloween. He shrugged it off; little children's holidays held little interest for him. He had more important things to do. The moonless sky made it difficult to see, but he didn't need to see the other Immortal; just feel him.

The sun had set hours ago, and he was beginning to seriously think Hayes had left town. Frustrated, he headed to _Joe's_. As he walked up to the doors, he felt another Immortal. Either MacLeod, Richie, Amanda, or Hayes was inside. His hand went automatically to his sword hilt as he walked into the club. A quick sweep of the patrons revealed MacLeod at the bar, staring intently at him. He returned the gaze as he walked up to the bar.

"You look like shit," MacLeod remarked.

He shot the Scotsman a disbelieving glare. "Hello to you, too, MacLeod." He waved to the bartender. "Joe, gimme a scotch. Make it a double."

"Anything wrong?" Joe asked as he placed the drink in front of him.

Joe's face was concerned, and Methos felt himself softening toward the Watcher. "Just an Immortal. Nothing I can't handle."

"Who is it?" MacLeod asked.

"No one you know," he replied as he took a sip of the scotch.

"How do you know?"

"I've read your file, remember? You've never met him." He knocked back the scotch and tapped the bar, indicating another. "He won't be a problem much longer."

"Who is it?" Joe asked quietly.

"Nobody of consequence," he replied curtly. Just because MacLeod had a big mouth didn't mean  _he_ had to announce who he was going to kill. There was always the chance that the Watchers didn't get every scrap of evidence, and then the police would be out looking for the killer -- and he didn't need police snooping into his background.

"You wouldn't look so bad if it was nobody of consequence," Joe persisted. "Is he good?"

He could read the implied question; can you beat him? He didn't know whether to take offense or be warmed that Joe cared that much. He settled for something in between. "He's not good enough," he replied huskily, the scotch warming his stomach and his vocal cords.

Joe shook his head in answer. MacLeod looked disgusted. "You shouldn't treat a challenge so lightly. What if he..."

"Mind your own business," Methos snarled. "If you happen to run into him,  _then_ you can lecture. But this is  _my_ fight. Let it alone."

"I'm your friend, Methos. I want to help you," MacLeod pleaded softly.

The glass Methos had been holding shattered as he banged it on the bartop. "There is nothing you can do, okay? You cannot fight for me, you cannot teach me, and you cannot argue with me. This is all about  _me_ and has nothing to do with  _you_ ,  ** _do you understand_**!" He stared at Joe, then MacLeod, anger narrowing his vision. All he could see was the hurt expressions on his friends' faces.

He swore he wouldn't ever feel it again, but here it was, guilt washing over him in waves. He turned abruptly and left the bar before Joe and MacLeod noticed. It twisted his guts until he could barely breathe, and he moaned as he leaned against a building. He couldn't see from the tears clouding his vision. Why was he feeling this way? What had changed that he acted this way? He couldn't control his emotions any longer; it seemed whatever he did, whatever he felt, it just came out. Control had been his life for so long, he didn't know what to do now that it was gone.

Whatever damage he was doing to his friendship with MacLeod, he didn't know if he had the strength to say he was sorry. Because while he was sorry, part of him was relieved that he had finally expressed himself. He'd let the Highlander assume a lot of things about him, and it was about time those illusions were shattered. He wasn't perfect just because he was old. He didn't have all the answers. He wasn't even a  _good guy_ by MacLeod's standards. As for Joe...Joe had put up with a lot of crap from him lately, and he wasn't sure the Watcher would accept any explanation. He was only mortal, after all.

He lifted his head from where it leaned against the wall as he felt a Buzz. He wiped his face quickly and composed himself, warily calling out, "Show yourself."

Hayes stepped out of the shadows like a mist. "Ah, there you are. I do believe we have an appointment."

Methos quickly gathered himself and mentally shifted into warrior mode. He drew his sword and pointed it at a building. "Over there."

Hayes followed him at a short distance. Once inside the building, the fight began without preamble. Methos channeled all his energy into his swings; the sheer force of his thrusts shaking his teeth. He didn't care about methods; he didn't care about elegance. This was fighting to the death at its most primal; him or his opponent. Whatever forces had been acting on Methos lately, they guided him now. He ignored the tiny cuts that Hayes had managed to inflict on his own body, so intent was he on doing damage to Hayes. He had Hayes backed into a corner, then with one mighty swing, he knocked Hayes' sword from his hand.

Hayes dropped to his knees and offered up a short prayer. Methos barely held himself in check long enough for Hayes to finish, then he swung his sword one last time, severing Hayes' head from his body.

His broadsword slipped from his blood-stained hands as the Quickening began. He lifted his hands to the air as the energy assaulted him; fire and ice coursed through his veins. Pain fought with pleasure, igniting every nerve ending and blood cell within his body. Lightning struck him again and again, and he screamed until his throat was raw. The last of the energy faded, leaving him on his knees, gasping for breath. He knew he couldn't stay there; the Watchers would be by to take care of the body soon.

He stumbled through the streets, feeling lightheaded. He had no idea where he was, or even  _who_ he was at this point. The Quickening had revitalized him, though he felt unsteady. He rested against a cool brick wall until he felt somewhat better, then started off again. He recognized where he was; he was near the dojo. MacLeod's Buzz was faint, but it drew him onward. Something wasn't right with this Quickening, and he needed something to ground him...and MacLeod was chosen by sheer proximity.

He nearly fell into the lift and punched the up button. He leaned heavily against the wall as it ascended to the loft. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of MacLeod, katana held at a defensive pose.

The katana lowered as recognition flared in MacLeod's eyes. "Methos, are you okay?" Concern was thick in his accented voice.

The world's oldest immortal would have laughed outright if he wasn't sore in a dozen places. He tripped out of the elevator and spun around clumsily. "Do I look okay?" he snapped as he sent the Scotsman a murderous glare. It wasn't working. MacLeod wasn't helping to settle him; instead, the Highlander's Buzz tingled along Methos' nerve endings, adding to Hayes'. Methos' skin crawled and he scratched at his face absently. He had a lot of excess energy that wanted to  _do_ something.

MacLeod laid his sword on the counter and tried to guide Methos to a chair. "Sit down," he urged.

"Don't need to sit down, Highlander. Need to  _do_ something," Methos muttered as he pulled himself out of MacLeod's grip.

"Methos, you're in no condition to go anywhere or do anything. Sit down."

Methos closed his eyes and counted to ten...in Latin, Greek, Chinese, and Arabic. But still, he was unable to control his response. "Don't treat me like a child - or one of your students," he taunted. He knew how fragile MacLeod's relationship was with Richie nowadays, and he felt not one ounce of guilt at throwing it back in the Highlander's face.

Thankfully, MacLeod was quiet for a minute. That gave Methos time to settle his thoughts somewhat. He still wasn't centered, but his skin didn't itch as much anymore. He was able to concentrate a bit better, though what he wanted was still elusive. Why had he come to MacLeod? All MacLeod had done lately was get on his nerves. Maybe that was it; maybe he was looking for another fight. Not for a Quickening, no, but an honest-to-goodness verbal fight. Skill against skill. He  _was_ the best, but the Highlander could hold his own on occasion. That's what Methos liked about him.

"Methos, did you find the other Immortal? Did he get away?"

Methos opened his eyes and turned to the Highlander. "I found him and I took his head." He wondered at MacLeod's curious expression. "What'd you think I was going to do, talk him to death? I wanted him dead, and now he's dead. End of story." Some days, he truly wondered about MacLeod.

"Then why are you acting like this?" MacLeod demanded.

"Like what?" He shoved his face right into MacLeod's. "If you have a problem, say so."

"I don't think I'm the one with the problem." MacLeod stood his ground.

"Really?" Methos felt a dangerous smile curl his lips.  _Yes_! MacLeod was primed and so was he. It was a beautiful opening, too. The Scotsman definitely knew how to fight. With his hands on his hips, he advanced on the Scot, his gaze hard. "I think you're the one with the problem, MacLeod."

MacLeod's defensive poster faltered, and concern filled its place. "Methos, what's gotten into you?"

"Maybe I just don't like looking at your face any more, ever think of that?" he barked. He switched gears abruptly, his eyes taking on a maniacal glare. "Or maybe...maybe I've been taken over by a dark Quickening. Maybe this isn't really  _me_. What if all the evil I've ever been has finally caught up with me?" He was breathing hard, but he was in his finest element. He knew exactly what he was saying, and he loved every second of it. He let that love show through as he hissed, "Maybe you should be afraid of me."

MacLeod didn't move, but the light changed in his eyes; fear was present now.

An evil smile lit his face. "Ah, so you're already afraid of me. Bright boy." He dropped his voice to a low baritone. "Because you should be." A feeling of satisfaction permeated his soul at the wounded look on MacLeod's face. He straightened to his full height with his shoulders proudly thrown back. He turned and strode to the lift, an ancient, arrogant swagger immediately coming back to him. He hadn't felt so powerful in millennia.

A rush of fear coursed through him, and his steps faltered. Conflicting emotions waged a brief war inside him, but confidence won out. "I think I'll stop by and see Joe," he announced with a thread of menace to his voice. "Want me to pass along your love and concern?" He snapped his fingers and turned his head to look at MacLeod. "I'm sorry, I forgot to ask. Were you speaking to him this week? Or have you thrown him out of your life again? It's so hard to keep up." His voice was dripping with sarcasm as he flashed a smile, then sauntered to the lift. He pulled the cage down with a flick of his wrist, then allowed a low chuckle to accompany him to the first floor.

Once back out on the street, Methos stopped and breathed deeply. His gaze slid over the people passing him on the street. A few of the women actually turned back around to appraise him, and he smiled charmingly at them. He knew exactly what he was doing to them; he could feel it himself. He felt energized; not just physically, but mentally. It was as if every sense was heightened. He was flying high, but knew exactly what he was doing. A heady rush, to be sure. He strolled to his car and slid inside, yet his gaze never left the people around him. Chuckling to himself, he flipped open the glove box and searched for a tape. "Fuck! Where'd it go?" he cursed as he flung tapes onto the seat, his search growing frantic until he finally found what he was looking for. He popped the tape in the deck then gunned the engine to the Blazer. A low, thrummy bass filled the air, suiting his mood perfectly.

He tore away from the curb after a brief glance to the rear view mirror. Traffic was light for a Friday night, yet he dodged around the few cars in his way. The neat, nice office buildings gave way to industrial warehouses as he continued to drive. He pulled up to the curb at an innocuous-looking building. He grabbed his duffel bag out of the back, then went into a side building to change. He coaxed his legs into the tight black Levi's, then stuffed his midnight-blue shirttails into the waistband. He jogged back across the street to his truck and tossed the bag into the back, along with his trenchcoat. He casually approached the man outside the door to the building. He bypassed those standing in the line and went straight up to the bouncer.

"Yeah?" the big man growled.

Methos shifted his hands to his hips as he flicked his gaze over the man. "I want in. How much?"

"Get lost, man. This ain't no..." the bouncer's air was immediately cut off as Methos' hand wrapped around his neck.

He squeezed firmly until the man's face turned blue, then casually dumped him to the ground. He stared down at the bouncer with a detached expression on his face, his eyes hard.

The bouncer held his abused throat as he gasped, "Go on in."

"Thank you," Methos tilted his head in acknowledgment. He removed a ten from his wallet and stuffed it in the guy's mouth. He patted him on the cheek, then stepped over him into the club.

It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the dimness inside the club. The walls and floor vibrated with the pounding bass that filled the air. He slid his glance along the people at the bar, disinterested. The lights were low, but he could make out plenty of people around the rest of the club. Small tables around the dance floor held groups of people chatting and laughing; those he immediately rejected.

He waved the bartender over to him and placed his order. "Whatever's on tap. Make it dark," he added. He turned and leaned back against the bar, resting his elbows on it as he surveyed the scene before him. His attention was drawn to the dance floor, where couples were performing erotic mating rituals. Some were performing more than that, and a slow smile curled his lips. He finally had a reason for his feelings - he was horny as hell. He scanned the dancers more intimately, searching for someone to satisfy his cravings.

He heard the beer being placed behind him, but continued to scan the crowd. Not strong enough, not tall enough, not dangerous enough - he mentally rejected people. He reached behind him and pulled the beer close, finishing it in one breath. He dug in his jeans for a five and laid it on the bar, then set off in the direction of the dance floor.

He stayed on the sidelines, allowing his body to slowly adjust to the rhythm. His hips starting moving to the beat, which flowed through him from the floor and the air around him. His movements grew sensual as he finally moved into the clothed orgy, though he still stayed off to one side.

Strong, capable and definitely female hands circled his waist and stroked up his chest. "Hi," a sultry voice whispered in his ear.

He turned in her arms to get a better look. She was only an inch or two shorter than himself, with medium-length reddish hair framing a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were dark; it was hard to tell what color in the flashing lights. She was wearing a tank top that left her midriff bare, revealing a belly-button ring. Her skirt came to mid-thigh - maybe higher, he corrected as the skirt flared out as she swung her hips. There was an air of danger around her, though she looked harmless. Perfect.

A slow, sensual smile curved his lips as he murmured, "Hello," back to her. His hands rested at her hips, his palms moving slowly against the fabric.

She shifted closer to him, lacing her fingers behind his neck as she tilted her head up to his. She leaned in closer until her breath whispered across his cheek. "You got a name?" she purred in his ear.

His hands slid lower to cup her well-rounded ass. He thrust against her lightly as he leaned down to nip at her neck. "Do I need one?" he murmured in her ear.

Her breathing deepened as she arched against him. "Not really," she gasped.

"Do you?" He let his invitation come through his voice, and he willed her to pick up on it. He was pleased - inordinately pleased when he saw her eyes light up with the challenge. If he had any doubts about what they'd be doing tonight, her insistently pulling him out the door cleared them up. He was going to be fucked, and fucked well. Just what he needed after the night he'd had.

They agreed she would follow him back to his place. He lead the way back to his apartment, arriving just a few seconds before she did. He lounged arrogantly against his Blazer while he waited for her.

She sauntered over to him and her eyes raked him from head to toe.

He smirked at her frank gaze. "Are you going to stand there or were you planning to do something?"

With a chuckle, she shoved him against the car and devoured his mouth hungrily. Her hands roamed appreciatively over his well-developed pecs, then went about his waist, pulling him closer.

His own hands covered her ass possessively. He shoved his thigh between hers as he rocked his hips, his tongue mimicking the movement deep inside her mouth.

She worked one of her hands between them and began rubbing against his erection. With a sharp moan, he broke the kiss. Her mouth latched onto his neck, and he very nearly lost control. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her back roughly. "I'll do this right here if you don't mind an audience," he challenged with a rasp to his voice.

"Upstairs," she gasped through her swollen lips, then she chuckled again. "But I wouldn't mind an audience."

"Maybe next time," he breathed before he captured her mouth with his again, then led her to his apartment.

~~~~

November 1st

Methos stretched languidly as he opened his eyes. A deep rumble of a yawn filled his chest and nearly split his jaw. He felt like he had been asleep for days...he reached for his bed partner, but she was gone. A small sense of loss was overshadowed as a deep, loose feeling settled in his bones. He remembered some of the positions they had tried the night before, and grinned. He had pulled some very old tricks to satisfy her, but it had been worth it. For the first time in weeks, he felt completely at ease. He rolled over and checked the time. Mid-morning; just right for a cup of coffee and a croissant. He'd been living in Paris too long; he couldn't function without a croissant in the morning. Good thing he had moved to Seacouver.

He set the water to boil as he retrieved the paper from his doorstep. He scanned the headlines as he bit into the delicate pastry. He put the paper down as a thought entered his head. He  _did_ feel completely at ease. Was that all he had needed? He'd gone without sex for long periods of time before, and it had never affected him like that. The past two weeks were a blur, but he remembered all the differing emotions he had dealt with. He checked the date; November first. Nothing in that date seemed special, but he grabbed his calendar and looked it over. Halloween, Columbus day, Yom Kippur...wait, what was this? There was a full moon on the 15th, and a new moon...last night. He'd taken a Quickening on All Hallow's Eve, during a new moon. Could it be related? Everything did work in cycles. Moon phases, tidal forces, and he'd been around to experience a lot of them.

He chuckled humorlessly. "I think the universe was acting against you, Methos old boy." He shook his head and returned to his coffee and pastry. He set the cup down with a dull thud as his thoughts chased themselves. If it was just the universe reminding him who was boss, he could live with that. Unfortunately, the Universe hadn't just acted against him. Joe, and especially MacLeod, had been hurt by his actions. He was sure they would understand...assuming he could get them to listen to him in the first place. He reached for the phone.

Methos barely waited for the other man to pick up. "MacLeod. Could you meet me at _Joe's_ in an hour?" He swallowed hard, then added quietly, "Please."

Methos closed his eyes as MacLeod remained silent, then the Highlander finally answered, "I'll be there."

"Thanks," Methos murmured to the dead line. MacLeod had hung up. Not entirely too upset - after all, MacLeod said he would be there, Methos dialed the bar.

"Joe's," the owner answered.

"Hi, Joe." Methos didn't say anything further. He didn't know what to say. How do you apologize for being a jerk?

"What do you want?" Joe snapped, though Methos could hear the concern under the anger.

"I'd like to stop by and ... explain, if I can. I've already invited MacLeod." Including MacLeod had been a good idea. Joe was always sensitive about Methos' relationship with the Highlander. The two of them were like oil and water, and Joe usually got stuck in the middle. Even if Joe didn't want to hear him, he would because of MacLeod.

"All right. When?"

Despite himself and his confidence, Methos let out a sigh of relief. "An hour." He almost hung up the phone, but he quickly added, "Joe."

"Yeah?" the Watcher replied warily.

"I'll bring lunch." It was as much a peace offering as Methos could handle right now. He only hoped Joe understood that.

Luckily, Joe chuckled. "Good. You owe me."

"See you, Joe." Methos waited until Joe hung up, then replaced his receiver. He folded the paper, finished off his pastry and coffee, then ordered Chinese. He'd pick it up on his way to _Joe's_.

He stood up, stretched, then looked toward the ceiling. "Well, Universe, looked like you showed me who's boss again. Next time, how about a telegram?" He waited for an answer, but wasn't surprised when he didn't receive one. "Right," he sighed, then went to grab a shower.

The End


End file.
